


The Greatest (and Only) Apocalypse Ever

by clockworkRhapsody (InkwellHero)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dark Comedy, End of the World, F/M, Humanstuck, Implied Sexual Content, Road Trips, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkwellHero/pseuds/clockworkRhapsody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of the world, and humanity has ten days left before a meteor shower destroys the planet. John just wants to drive back home to say goodbye to his dad.</p><p>He doesn't see any harm in letting a moderately suicidal girl hitch a ride to Vegas along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest (and Only) Apocalypse Ever

_"Good morning California. You're listening to the Light 101.5 Radio Show in the morning, with your host, Elvis Fisher, and it's July tenth. We've got Dr. Gregory Hill from the UCLA labs with us today, to tell us about the meteor shower that many are claiming will wipe out life on Earth. What can you tell us about these claims, Dr. Hill?"_

_"They may be true. NASA at Cape Canaveral has recently released statements saying that their most recent attempts to deflect the impending meteors have all failed, and impact is expected to be in exactly ten days."_

_"And what do you expect will happen? From a scientific viewpoint."_

_"There is nothing to 'expect,' Elvis. The sheer size and number of these meteors almost guarantees complete destruction of the planet. By the time the Earth has revolved once, only half of the meteors will have landed. Meaning the Earth will be assaulted by meteors planet-wide twice."_

_"Do you have any comfort for the listeners?"_

_"I'm sorry, no. All I can say is . . . let your loved ones know what they mean to you. Tie up loose ends. This may be the end."_

You can't listen to this anymore. You turn the dial a couple times, but even stations that usually play music won't shut up about the meteor shower, so you turn the radio off completely. The sudden silence in the cab of the car isn't a huge improvement. 

You slam your fist on the dashboard to work, trying to coax the AC of this piece of shit to life. The Californian desert is no place to be driving for extended periods of time without air. The old '69 Camaro you're driving certainly _looked_ like a good purchase a few days ago---you needed a car to get to your dad's place in Seattle, the ride looks pretty sick, and it's so old you got it for a great price. Not that you really need to budget anymore. You're going to die soon.

The desert road stretches on for a million miles. You're so sick of staring at the empty strip of asphalt, the empty plains of sand, the empty sky. You wish you could just be back in old rainy Washington already. You imagine your dad, sitting around baking or something, wondering if his only son will see him again before his death. You've tried to call him a few times, but the cell towers must be down; now your cell phone is serving as a paperweight, pinning the road map you found at a gas station to the dash.

You roll down the windows, to let chafing but mercifully cool wind into the car, and drum the steering wheel with your fingers. You guess you've been pretty calm about this whole dying thing. At first, you were freaking out as hard as the next guy, but since then you've sort of lost interest. You think it's easier to accept imminent death instead of flipping out or starting a riot, like a lot of people have been doing recently. Crime, suicide, all of that stuff has really peaked since the news came out.

You go for a swig of water, only to realize the bottle is empty; since litter really isn't at the top of anyone's concerns right now, you chuck it out the window and reach for your map. Your displaced phone tumbles to the floor of the car. According to the coffee-stained map of the Western seaboard, you're getting pretty close to a little frontier-type town. Which is perfect. A good place to fill up the tank, and stock up on some food. 

You're just starting to wonder how far this stupid rest stop is when you notice something on the road. 

A girl.

She's lying with her arms spread out---she must be dead, or crazy, because the asphalt has got to be baking in this sun---and staring intently at the sky, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. You slow to a stop and decide that you must be having a heatstroke. There's no way someone's just lying there---definitely alive, too, her leg is moving---in the middle of a desert. This is insanity.

Still, you leave the car idling a few feet away and get out, immediately assaulted by the sun's rays. You take a few hesitant steps closer. She doesn't acknowledge you. Emboldened, you approach and stand over her, blocking the sun and throwing her face into shadow. She raises an eyebrow, irritated.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to die here."

Well. That definitely isn't the response you were expecting. Clearing your throat, you ask, "Er, why's that?"

"Might as well get it over with. Only have a couple days left, anyway."

"Baking alive in the desert is kind of masochistic, isn't it?"

"Oh, Mr. Knight-in-Shining-Armor is really looking out for me. If you want to help then get in your car and run me over a few times."

"I'm not doing that, sorry." 

"Don't apologize, dipshit." She sits up, pushing the sunglasses up into her hair and glaring at you with dark blue eyes. "Look, do you want something?"

You've never met such an abrasive girl in your life. "No, I mean---do you want a ride somewhere?"

"Gee, I really want to climb into a car with a total stranger in the middle of fucking nowhere," she says sarcastically. "I said I want to die, not get murdered."

"I'm just heading up to Washington. No murder on my agenda. Pinky swear." You smile, because people always tell you that's your best feature, and hold up your little finger.

She rolls her eyes and gets to her feet, brushing dust from her hole-riddled jeans. She's wearing just a tank top, so you get a good look at the bandages wrapped around her left arm and shoulder, spotted with blood in some places. Now, more than ever, you feel obligated to give her a lift. You think it's your way of repenting for any past sins now that you don't have a lot of time left. Helping someone out in their time of need.

"If you insist," she says heavily, as if this is really taxing for her. She holds out her uninjured right hand. "Vriska."

"John." You shake on it, and head back to your car.

"Nice ride," she comments, the first positive thing out of her mouth. "You don't look like the vintage car type."

"I'm not," you admit, hitting the gas. "I just needed a cheap car to get to my dad's place."

She dons her sunglasses again, looking at you from the passenger seat. "I'm guessing he's in Washington?"

"Yep."

"You think you could drop me off in Vegas? If it's on the way."

You think about it, and decide that yes, you _are_ going that way; might as well. "Sure thing."

The desert rest stop is rearing up in the distance. You breathe a sigh of relief, since you're running low on provisions in general, as you pull into the dinky stop. It's pretty pathetic---a gas station, a convenience store, an ATM, and a diner. An old Mexican man in a cowboy hat watches you from the porch, serene as can be. You guess the people out here aren't too bothered by the apocalypse, either.

The gas station, unsurprisingly, is empty; you blow a lot of money on filling up your tank and a few gallon containers you've got in the trunk. Not that money is really an issue. You've emptied your bank accounts, like a lot of people have these last few days, and have yet to be confronted with a situation where your funds are insufficient. Vriska's riffling through a few of your CDs when you buckle in again and turn the engine on.

"Really? John Mayer?" she criticizes, holding up an album. 

"He's soulful," you say defensively, backing out of the dilapidated station. 

She scoffs and goes back to pawing through your glove compartment. You pull in in front of the diner and glance over at her. "You hungry?"

"Sure," she says, smirking. "If you're paying."

Now it's your turn to roll your eyes. "Fine."

Twenty minutes later, you're the only two patrons in a stuffy diner, eating pancakes and being waited on by a waitress in her late sixties. The waitress, Joan, doesn't seem all that concerned with imminent death, either, and she gets you refills on coffee very promptly. 

"So," you say conversationally, emptying a packet of sugar into your mug. "What brings you out here? Besides, you know, the death wish thing."

"Just trying to get away," she answers vaguely.

"Why Vegas?"

She shrugs. "No time to gamble like the end of the world."

"You from the south?" You don't hear any accent.

"If you count San Diego as the south, then sure."

That explains it. "How'd you get all the way out here?"

"Hitched a ride with some jackass," she says, voice sour. "He seemed cool, until he tried to cop a feel. Didn't go over so well with me, so he kicked me out in the middle of the desert, the asshole. You can understand my reluctance to accept your oh-so-gracious offer, Sir Chivalrous."

You agree wholeheartedly, wondering to yourself why you bothered with this. You ought to drop her off at a bus station or something and be done with it. You don't have room for Vriska in your apocalypse---all you have planned is a long drive up to Washington, a goodbye to your father, and then a fiery death. You're getting way off track. 

You pay, tip the waitress generously, and make a quick stop for food in the convenience store (and its bathroom) before hitting the road again. Now all that separates you from Las Vegas is a day or two driving. You're a little anxious about seeing civilization again, since it must be spiraling out of control by now, but you figure you owe it to her. She looks beat up by life and it really isn't that far.

The two of you listen to depressing radio broadcasts for a while, laughing at the stupid comedians who're still trying to make jokes, and all the talk-show hosts pretending to be unafraid for the viewers. NASA reports another failed attempt at thwarting the meteors. You don't expect anything better. You like to think that, somehow, this is just what's supposed to happen; there's really nothing to be done about it. You're okay with that.

When the sun finally starts to go down, and you have to turn on the headlights, you tell her to go ahead and sleep; you're not tired and there aren't any places to stop around here anyway. You can tell she's hesitant. You wouldn't want to go to sleep in a stranger's car, either. She might be faking it, but at least it's quiet, which you can appreciate.

The desert disappears into darkness when night falls completely, and it's peaceful. You barely pay attention while you're driving. It's not like people are really travelling out here; people were advised to stay in their homes and off the roads. You don't care. Your relationship with your father isn't great, either---he smothered you as a kid, and you weren't that torn up about leaving for college a few months back---but you still feel obligated to go see him. He deserves it, at least. 

You sneak glances at Vriska every once and a while; you think she's sleeping, though you can't be sure. Her bandaged arm stands out in the darkness of the cab. You wonder what happened to her, but know it isn't your place to ask. The mystery continues, you think dryly. You almost laugh out loud at that, indicating that you must be dead on your feet and it's about time you stopped for the night.

There are no rest stops around here, but you aren't really afraid of being robbed or anything similar; it's too empty out here, too isolated, and you haven't seen another person since the rest stop miles ago. You pull onto the shoulder, roll the windows up, and recline in your chair, falling asleep to the sounds of the wind scratching dust against the car.

* * *

"Dude. Wake up."

Someone's poking you, hard, in the shoulder. You groan and try to scoot away, only to be thwarted by the driver's side door. Oh, right. You're in your car. You crack one eye open and wince at the bright sunlight---it must be well into the morning, judging by the intensity of the light. Blinking, you turn your head, confronted with your passenger leaning over you.

"Took you long enough," Vriska mutters, slumping back into her seat. She smells like rust and coffee grounds.

"I'm awake, jeez," you mumble, sitting up and fumbling for the keys.

As you turn back onto the road, she says, "You're a really heavy sleeper."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I blasted a Jimi Hendrix solo and you didn't even move."

You just shrug, drowsy still, and try to wake yourself up by turning on the radio. Today it's another slew of apocalyptic broadcasts and farewells. Vriska puts on another Hendrix song, which is pretty good driving music, you guess. You're getting closer to the first actual town---maybe half an hour separates you from civilization. And after that, it won't be long before you reach Vegas and Vriska hops off the party train.

"What're you going to do if they're closed?"

"Huh?" She looks up from the track list of an AC/DC album. 

"The casinos. If they're closed."

"Oh." Thoughtfully, she responds, "I don't really know."

"You could come with me. To Washington, I mean." You hate to admit it, but you've grown to enjoy having company. Vriska isn't exactly the model companion. You admit that, too. But she's there, and she's a person, and she isn't bugging out about the fact that everyone's going to die in ten---no, nine days, now. Which is probably all you can ask of someone in these tense times. There are two types of people right now: people who have gone apeshit, and people who could care less. 

She looks at you over the tops of her sunglasses. "You trying to kidnap me, Mr. So-and-So?"

"No, ma'am, I'm just an honest young man trying to help a girl out, Miss Something-or-Other."

She grins and says, "Fine. If you're going to be such a gentleman about it."

You think you've made your first official apocalypse friend.

The first town you drive through isn't in complete disorder, but you see a lot of "THE END IS NEAR" posters and some stores with broken windows; cops on patrol and boarded doors. A state trooper stops you and Vriska, but when you tell him you're just passing through, he waves you on without a second glance. You leave the town behind for another stretch of barren desert soon after.

She breaks the silence first. "Are you afraid? Of dying?" 

"Not really. I mean, I'm afraid of how much it's going to hurt. But I'm not scared of . . . not existing, or whatever. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah." She lets the matter drop.

Las Vegas is only a few hours away.

* * *

The casinos are up and running, chugging along on their last grab for the public's money. You're not hugely surprised. By now, it's late afternoon, and the lights on the strip are bright and distracting. People arrive by the busload, so you have to drive slow to avoid creaming an inattentive gambler. When the masses of people are too much for your ride, you cut the engine and clear your throat.

"So, I guess, you're out of here?" you hedge, not sure how to bridge the subject. This is awkward. You don't pick up a girl off a desert highway and then drop her off in Vegas without a twinge of sadness.

"Yep." She undoes her seat belt, one hand on the door. "Thanks for everything, John So-and-So."

She gets out, and you wave goodbye. You don't regret that little adventure. If anything, the ride to Washington is going to be that much lonelier without her.

As you're waiting for the people to clear out enough for you to hit the gas, the passenger door opens and she's back, less than a minute after leaving.

"So, what's your dad like?"

You just grin.

* * *

It's a long drive up to Washington, and you've got eight days left.

Not just to get to your dad's place---you have a bucket list, too. And eight days to complete it.

john egbert's comprehensive list of things to do before the world ends

1\. get wasted.  
2\. get laid.  
3\. seriously, that's it.

You're eighteen, and a virgin. There's no way around it. You've got a small window of opportunity to bone someone (in the words of your friend Dave, who headed for Texas the same time you left for Seattle), and the window is closing. You somehow doubt there'll be a lot of time for glorious love-making in the afterlife, anyway. If there even is one. But you don't want to get into that.

You've scrawled your bucket list down and shoved the scrap of paper between the seat and the floor, so when Vriska ducks to rescue a bottle of water that morning, she comes up with the Post-It note in her hand and a raised eyebrow. "Really?"

"Hey, that's personal!" you sputter, nearly veering off the road in your effort to grab it from her. The damage is already done.

"Why is getting wasted placed above getting laid?" she inquires, finding your mortification amusing. "I think your priorities are out of whack."

"My priorities are going swimmingly, thank you," you quip, focusing on the road. 

She laughs now, kicking her Chucks up on the dashboard. "You're a young guy, John. I think you care more about banging someone than you do about getting hammered. At least, that's how it usually goes. Sex over booze."

Your stupid cheeks are reddening considerably. A playful, somewhat predatory grin slides across her features. "Oh, my god. Holy shit. You're a _virgin_ , aren't you?"

"I neither confirm nor deny this statement," you snap, growing more flustered by the second. 

"Aw, that's cute," she snickers. "No wonder it's on your list. Personally, I recommend getting wasted second, getting laid first."

"Gee. Thanks."

"Any time."

* * *

In the end, you only make it to Oregon.

Time isn't the issue. Ten days is more than enough for the drive. No, it's the circumstance that's against you---namely, all of the traffic on the major highways, and all of the roadblocks on smaller roads. Eventually, police set up blockades at random intervals on every road, regardless of size, choking the flow of traffic to a stop. And that's the end of that.

You've got five days.

Once the PSA about traffic closing comes on the radio, you and Vriska are nearing a sleepy Oregon town. You cut the engine in the middle of the road. It's empty, anyway, and there are trees on either side. Just a black strip of asphalt cutting through an evergreen forest. The roadblock will be somewhere up ahead. Defeated, you lean your forehead against the steering wheel and groan. 

"Sorry about your dad," Vriska says, and you think it's genuine. "I know this meant a lot to you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not," she presses.

You offer a smile. "Nothing we can do about it, can we?"

"No." She chews her lip, considering something. "You know what? We're going to finish that list."

"What are you---"

"Move it or lose it, wimp!" she orders, turning the key in the ignition for you. You give her a long-suffering look and comply. A road sign looms, proclaiming the proximity of the town. 

The trees give way to an old mining town, population in the two-digit range, so there's no bar---there is a liquor store, though, and Vriska hands the man at the counter a fake I.D. He doesn't even look at it. With the world ending in under a week, you suppose there's really no reason in following frivolous laws like alcohol age limits. She pays this time, and you're not paying attention, so you're not sure what to think when a brown bag is passed to her over the counter.

Ten minutes later, it's getting dark out and you're sitting with her in your car on a tree-lined road outside of town. The brown bag sits between you and her.

"Okay. Let's do this," you say, determined, nodding in the affirmative when she smirks questioningly at you.

"Atta boy." Now grinning, she unearths two bottles and holds them up with a devilish look. "Jack Daniels or Smirnoff?"

You really don't know much about alcohol---you do know that Jack Daniels is whiskey, and Smirnoff is vodka or something, mostly from the commercials and the print on the bottles---so you just shrug. "I don't know, which one's better?"

She rolls her eyes at your naïveté and pops the top off the Jack Daniels bottle. "Might as well start you off with a bang. God, this is almost embarrassing. It's like . . . baby's first binge-drink."

"Har har, very funny."

"I know, I'm hilarious." She hands you the bottle. "Now drink up."

You eye the amber liquid suspiciously, take a deep breath, and tip it back. You nearly spit everything up on the steering wheel. This stuff is god awful. Betrayed, you turn to your passenger. "This is supposed to be good?"

"It's an acquired taste. Trust me, people don't usually drink it for flavor, anyway."

You take her word for it and take a few slower sips, and soon, the sharp, burning tang of whiskey doesn't sting so much as it soothes. Your head feels fuzzy. Vriska laughs at you and takes the bottle back, imparting the words, "Don't chug it all, tiger," before taking a swig herself. 

You wordlessly hold out your hand for more. "Am I wasted yet?"

"No, God, no," she chuckles. "You're not smashed. You won't know you're smashed until tomorrow morning, when you've got a mad hangover and can't even remember where you went or what you did."

"Oh." With this, you take an extra long drink, hoping to speed up the process. You almost spit up again. 

"Cool it, champ. Don't blow chunks all over the car because you've got a weak stomach."

You stick your tongue out at her. She makes you try vodka, which doesn't burn as much as whiskey, and you like it, even though it's a "sissy drink" in her opinion. You keep trying to figure out if you're hammered or not, but it's hard, and after a while you stop figuring and start reclining, pushing the seat all the way back and staring at the roof of the car blankly. She follows suit. You're drinking a lot more than her, you notice; where everything is sort of blurred for you, she acts and speaks pretty coherently.

"John," she says gravely. You struggle to focus on her. "It's happened. You're totally fucking wasted."

 _"Yes,"_ you hiss-whisper, attempting to fist bump but only smashing your elbow into the seat. 

You pass out.

* * *

You wake up in a bed.

This isn't really the first fact to register; first, you catalog the awful pain in your head, the migraine forming rapidly, and groan out loud. You feel horrible. Still wearing your clothes, with your glasses digging into your face. You think you're dying. Or already dead. Maybe the world ended early.

"Rise and shine, sleepy head," Vriska sing-songs from somewhere nearby. You press your face into a pillow and groan some more.

"Man, you're even worse when you're hungover," she comments. You feel the bed sag with her added weight. "Get up already. It's nearly three o'clock."

You grumble and tangle yourself deeper into the covers. She sighs dejectedly and moves out of sight, and you think you've won---until she opens the curtains and lets sunlight stream into the room. You hiss and burrow into the bedclothes. The woman is the devil. 

"Oh, fine," she mutters in defeat. "Have it your way. I'll fill you in, but you better be listening!"

You mutter your understanding.

"After you completely _passed out_ I took the liberty to drive you all the way to this shitty motel, you can thank me later, and drag you upstairs. I mean, I think you were somewhat awake for that. Or at least conscious. I don't know. Anyway, you threw up next to the bed and passed out again, if you're wondering, and you've been asleep ever since."

Great.

You muster all of your will power and sit up at lethargically, wincing at the bright light. "Pull the curtains at least, won't you?"

She concedes, drawing the room into dimness again, and you breathe a relieved sigh. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah."

You sink back against the pillows, trying to remember why you ever wanted to get wasted. This is terrible. You feel like someone's breaking glass in your skull every time you hear the slightest noise. Coffee helps, but it isn't perfect, and you can't shake the headache. You take a numbing shower and change into some comfortable clothes. This motel thing is a pretty good idea.

* * *

Two days before the world is supposed to end, you check off the second item on your bucket list.

It's nothing special. It's your first time, not hers, and she says she's only doing this for you because letting you die a virgin would be criminal. But you like to think it's something more than that. Which is stupid. To get attached to someone, forty-eight hours before doomsday, is just idiotic.

You'll only say that the second item on the list is eight hundred times better than the first and it's a real shame that your first time is also going to be your last.

* * *

On the predicted day of reckoning, the sky is orange-tinted---if you look at just the right moment, the meteors are even visible. Which is fascinating and terrifying all at the same time.

You're still in the motel room, mainly because the owner has stopped charging you---he doesn't care either which way about money. No one cares about money right now. It's all about living your last moments to the fullest, and telling the ones you love how you feel and all of that. You think of your dad and immediately stop thinking of your dad. Cell towers aren't working, call won't go through, and there's no point dwelling. 

You and Vriska, your partner in crime, sit on the floor under the window, legs stretched out, a bottle of whisky separating you. You barely drink. Part of you wants to be perfectly coherent when you die, and another part yearns for the blissful buzz of alcohol. You suppress that urge and peak out the window again. Now, the meteors are impossible to ignore, ugly splotches against the bloody sky, and you consider drawing the curtains. 

The indifference you've felt about the end of the world all this time is wearing off. Of course, you don't blame yourself. The sheer size of the meteors hurling their way towards you is enough to scare anyone. Vriska scowls at you.

"Don't be so glum, John," she urges, getting to her feet. "Come on, let's watch the news. That's always a laugh, right?"

No use; the power's out. You don't know how much time you have left, but you figure that it's not a lot, and people that run electric companies and power plants are probably with their families right now, not working. 

"Alright, maybe not." She flops down on the bed, one arm hanging off, and looks at you crookedly. "This sucks."

"Understatement of the year."

"Yeah."

The anxiety in your stomach crawls around on your insides, and when you take a sip of the whiskey it's more out of necessity than desire. She notices your discomfort and rolls over. "You okay?"

"Not really," you admit, worrying the edge of the curtain in your hand. 

She makes a face. "Not ready to go?"

"No, just . . ." You struggle with the words. "I'm not scared of dying, but . . . death by _meteor_? That sounds horrible."

"I guess," she agrees, voice sounding off-key. "There are other ways, if that's what you're saying."

You let the curtain go and glance up in surprise. The suggestion is morbid, but you're intrigued. "You mean . . . suicide?"

"I guess," she repeats, chewing on her lower lip. 

You think about it. You really do. You can definitely find something in this cheap hotel room to off yourself with, something that would be a thousand times less painful than being crushed by a meteor, and the more you think about it, the more appealing the option seems. Going out on your own terms? Yeah, that's got to be better than getting squashed like a bug. 

You don't want to be part of a statistic---suicides have risen to new highs thanks to all of this end-of-the-world panic---but is it even really a question anymore? 

You go to the side of the bed, and she watches you warily, waiting for the answer. She probably wants this. She's probably wanted to die since before you picked her up a thousand years ago on that road in California, sprawled out on the pavement. You nod to her. She swallows, but doesn't say anything. 

Feeling older than you are, you sit down on the edge of the sagging mattress. She readjusts and rests your head on your lap. You ask her, for the first time, what happened to her bandaged arm; she says something about her mother and leaves it at that, and you let it go. You're about to die. You don't want to open old wounds. (In fact, you think you're about to open some new ones.) 

You sit in silence for a while, but she can't handle silence, and she flops over to properly eye you. "So? Are we going to do this or not?"

She doesn't sound impatient, just nervous, so you nod again. She disappears from your line of sight. You keep your eyes on the sky, watch it get swallowed up by burning space-rocks, and soon enough, you stop feeling worry, or fear, or anything similar. The door opens, and she returns some time later with an orange bottle in her hand.

"What's that?"

"Painkillers," she answers shortly, and you nod. Analgesics like those, when taken in high amounts, are definitely enough to kill. You remember watching a boring documentary about over-the-counter overdoses in freshman year health class. Now, it doesn't seem so boring.

"So, uh, how do we do this?" you ask, awkwardly. You've never thought about killing yourself before. Ever. 

"Well, you can't guarantee they'll work on their own," she replies, knowingly, as she reaches for the discarded whiskey. "So be sure to wash them down with this."

"You sure know a lot about this."

Her eyes skip past you, remembering something she probably wishes she wouldn't, and you shut your mouth. You don't really know a lot about Vriska, you don't even know her last name---all you know is, she wants to kill herself, probably has for a long time, and you had sex with her in a motel room two days before the end of the world. You let it go.

"Wait," she says, when you start to twist the top off the bottle of pills. "I'm not ready yet."

You're surprised, but relieved---you don't want to do this, but at the same time, you feel like you have to. You let the bottle hit the comforter and flop onto the bed, your legs hanging off, your back pressed against the creaky springs. She joins you in a similar manner, opting to curl up on her side and stare at you, or maybe the pills---you're not sure.

You keep your eyes on the ceiling, because it's easier, and breathe deeply. You start counting, now, counting your breaths until they run out, but the panic you've felt recently doesn't return. You're calm. You're ready.

You sit up, the bottle of whiskey between your knees, and shake a few painkillers into your palm. "How many?"

"At least eight."

You think she has a thing for that number.

"Just make sure you get a lot of booze, too."

You nod, your hand shaking slightly, but you don't move much past that. She goes to the window, twitches the curtains aside. You watch her instead. It's easier. 

Of course, doing what's easy never got anyone anywhere, and you stop beating around the bush. You tip all of the pills back, and swallow hard. The whiskey is clutched in your other hand, but you pause before taking a drink. She's staring at you with mild alarm. Eight little white pills roll around in her palm, too. 

"I think I'm in love with you," you say, sluggishly. Your head is starting to pound. Your stomach, too. 

Her expressions flash twenty times, and settle on worry. "John, drink. You're just going to throw up the pills if you don't."

You do what she says, swallowing whiskey hard and quelling the upset in your stomach. She swallows her pills and takes the bottle out of your hand, face twisted. This is it, then? You're going to die? Well, your days are numbered, anyway. And this is good. You feel like you have just a smidgen of control this way, like you're taking your life back from fate (even if you're just throwing it away).

The whiskey falls out of her hand and spills on the carpet. She falls onto the bed next to you, and you're starting to regret this, because you feel awfully sick and the room is spinning.

"John." She blinks at you. "Did you mean it?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

You think that, if you could have a few more days in this motel room, you wouldn't take them; because for the first time in your life, you feel alive. In your dying moments, you feel alive. There's a girl holding your hand and all you can smell is alcohol and the ugly stench of medicine. All things considered, this isn't that bad, for an apocalypse. Kind of. You're tired.

You want to make a movie moment and kiss Vriska whose last name you don't know dramatically, but it doesn't happen, because you're tired, and your eyes close and the sound of the radiator fades out. The feeling of her hand in yours disappears, too, and goddamn are you tired.


End file.
